Dear Lawn Mower,
When we first started dating last year, things were good. You started on the first pull. You chewed through ankle-high grass when the yard would get away from me once a month. You didn’t burn through oil. On a good day, you could even mow the whole yard on one tank of gas.
I liked you. We went steady. You didn’t let me down like so many of your kind have in the past.
So when I called you up for the first dance of the spring, I thought we would pick up right where we left off when we said our goodbyes last fall. I know it’s been a few months. I know I didn’t write letters or send flowers. But you were so reliable when we dated last year, and I did put you in a shed for the winter. I naturally assumed you’d just – be there.
And you aren’t. Oh in body you are. Every last iron bit of you is very much there, but where is your spirit? When I called you up to go to the first spring cutting with me, I expected you to actually spin your blades around the yard a few times.
I mean, criminy, I nearly pulled my arm off trying to get your motor going this weekend and I completely failed. That doesn’t happen very often.
To make matters worse, when I finally cried defeat to Jay, he came to the rescue and what did you do? You started. You traitorous hunk of whirly-bladed metal. I was dutifully embarrassed, mowed most of the yard and then shut you off to move pine cones.
Why? Because they were there. And you’d started for Jay; you would start for me.
I’ve nearly dislocated my shoulder pulling your rip cord since then, because if Jay could bring you to life then I sure as heck could too. And no, I will not apologize for ninja-kicking your handle. If you would have started, I wouldn’t have had to go all Chuck Norris on you.
But now you’re dead, and I’m calling in reinforcements. If you think Chuck Norris is bad, wait til you meet these guys. The humane thing might be to just let you go to your grave in peace, but no. dad. gum. way.
Lawn Mower, you have fully and completely turned the faucet wide open on my rage. The smart thing to do would be to go to a store and purchase a new and improved version of you. But I won’t. Because I plan to bring you back from the dead and escort you to as many grass cuttings this year as I possibly can.
See you soon,
Raging Redhead
